


one more time with feeling

by elliptical



Series: to own a galaxy [4]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Sgrub Session, Consent Issues, Depression, Gen, Mental Health Issues, Past Abuse, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-28
Updated: 2015-11-28
Packaged: 2018-05-03 20:08:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5305142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elliptical/pseuds/elliptical
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You are the First Imperial Helmsman, and much to your own disappointment, you are, in fact, sane.</p>
            </blockquote>





	one more time with feeling

**Author's Note:**

> for people who wanted to see psii's pov
> 
>  
> 
> _everyone takes turns, now it's yours to play the part_  
>  _and they're sitting all around you holding copies of your chart_  
>  _and the misery inside their eyes is synchronized and reflected into yours_  
>  _hold on, one more time with feeling_  
>  _try it again, breathing's just a rhythm_  
>  _say it in your mind until you know that the words are right_  
>  _this is why we fight_  
>  _-one more time with feeling, regina spektor_

You are the First Imperial Helmsman, and much to your own disappointment, you are, in fact, sane.

To be fair, "sanity" is a relative concept and you're not doing a great job at living up to average expectations. You keep getting unstuck in time and mixing up faces and forgetting how your body works and half the words you form don't leave your mouth in the right order. The world at large is confusing and you're having trouble keeping track of your senses and you ache dully whenever you try to move, so your external appearance of strength is... lacking. Not much has been asked of you since the new Empress came into power and tore you from the column in a move she thought was mercy. You have a feeling everyone thinks you're crazy, because you keep forgetting you're not a ship anymore and also getting disoriented by the reincarnation of your dead moirail.

But also to be fair, what's left of your mind works fucking fine. Considering they cut you off from the networks that comprised most of your being, unraveled your integrated nervous system, squished you back into a form too small and broken to contain your power, and then expected overwhelming gratitude - you're impressed you retain the ability to think at all. You know who you are and you remember what you've done and you can appreciate the weight of the monster you've become, so all in all you're a hell of a lot saner than you'd like to be.

You're not too fussed about the crew's opinion of you. Being perceived insane means that people leave you alone unless they have good reason not to. It also means you're low on the Empress' potential threat list (hahahahaha), there are very few expectations placed on your shoulders, and people don't question the strange places you wander on the ship.

You never did get the grand tour of the interior of your second body, and there were so many upgrades and revisions made over the sweeps that it's hardly recognizable as the ship you were originally jacked into anyway. Your current project: threading your way through the decks and mapping the rooms to reorient yourself. The Battleship Condescension is the size of a small city, so it's as good a way to occupy your time as any.

Said project also makes your pusher ache. There's a certain cruelty to making you live in your own corpse, but you're not sure that's occurred to any of them. This ship used to be a living breathing thing, and now it's a desecrated husk of metal and body parts, a shadow of its former self. You could have told them what they were doing if they'd asked you first. But the Empress is a child already living up to her expected legacy. Asking for your consent never even occurred to her. She decided what was best for you and now you have to live with it.

History doesn't change, merely repeats itself with different faces. Or in this case, with younger versions of the same faces. You've been alive long enough to understand the ebb and flow.

You're banned from the main ship viewport now that you've lost yourself in it... three or four times, you can't remember. You consider ignoring the ban, but you're not sure the risk is worth the reward. The only peace you've found has been cocooning yourself in the stars and slipping back into shipspeak, but peace means forgetting that you're newly mortal, and it's very important to the Empress that you stay alive.

You have yet to get yourself banned from ship tech, though. You know entering the helmsblock is a bad idea, even aching as you are, so instead you slip into one of the underused computer labs. The consoles in here don't have the same clearance levels or options as those on the main bridge, but they're good enough. You step into the room and stare at the flickering screens.

Emptiness rears up and latches cold fingers hard around your chest. You can't... you can't remember how to use them from the outside. You're made of code, your consciousness is meant to slip through the wires and networks, unfurling in the inbetween spaces so you can work. You are a computer. Coding and input commands are as natural to you as breathing, because they are the way your thoughts are meant to process.

But no, that's not you, not anymore. You're staring at the dead system that used to be you and you can't even pretend to interface with it because you can't remember how.

You back out of the room and lean against the hallway wall, pressing a hand over your mouth, and you are desperately fighting off a panic attack when a familiar voice says, "Psii?"

"I told you never to call me that," you snarl as you whip your head to the right.

Whoops.

The Empress, the new Empress, blinks at you. She's flanked by bodyguards, both of whom step forward at the outburst. Idiot, idiot, you should have realized - the tone and accent are so similar, but she pitches her voice higher than your Empress ever did. Gives a friendlier image. You just forgot again.

Your one saving grace is that she doesn't speak Old Alternian. "I apologize," you say immediately, switching over to the current common tongue. "You startled me. Do you require my service?"

She winces at your wording (good) and waves the guards back. "I was hoping to speak to you."

"Of course." You stand up straight. "Speak."

She blinks again. She... doesn't know what to do with you, which is satisfying in its own way. That might be the only thing left that satisfies you.

"What were you doing in there?" she asks.

"Playing Troll Tetris."

"Reely?"

"I forgot about the novelties of Troll Tetris." 

She tilts her head to the side, fins fluttering. She can't tell if you're mocking her or not. You watch her, expressionless, letting her muddle her own way through the conversation. You don't owe her anything, and the bitterness chokes you almost as roughly as the earlier panic. You're not sure you could keep speaking even if you wanted to.

"I am so sorry about what my ancestor put you through," she says.

What her _ancestor_ put you through. You are ice. "Save your guilt for your own actions. Your ancestor was not your responsibility."

She hesitates. "I didn't want to kill her. I don't want to kill anyone."

It takes such an effort not to roll your eyes. She has no reason to bring up moral quandaries unless she wants your reassurance. Wants you to pat her on the head and tell her that she's nothing like her predecessor, that all of her dreams will come true, that she is the benevolence the people have been crying for. If she wants that, she should return to Alternia and wrap herself in the embrace of her fucking godlusus. You're no grubsitter.

"It was required of you," you say, because at least that's true. "That's the way of this world. You're stronger than her, so you won. Congratulations. Enjoy your inheritance."

Her tongue flicks over her lips. "I read your history. I don't know how much you remember, but I thought... You didn't deserve what happened to you. I thought I could help."

You remember enough to hate her for thinking she understands anything. "And what a grand political gesture the rescue was." You laugh, a painful spasm in your chest. "You released the last prisoner of war. Tied up the final loose end just in time for your coronation. I expect I'll be made to parade before the masses as an example of the freedom you're promising? Don't worry, I'll spare you the trouble of pretending I have a choice. Just prewrite any speeches for me."

She blanches, taking a step back. "That isn't what I was going to say at all," she says. "I came to ask for your help."

"My help."

"If you want to give it," she amends after a short pause. Amazing. "You're the oldest troll alive. You know everyfin about how the Empire currently works and how... how it shoald work. You know what I'm inheriting. If you help me, advise me, I won't have to - won't have to go in blind."

"You already have advisers for that. Every adviser for the last Empress now belongs to you. Or have you culled them all?"

"I told you I don't want to kill anyone!"

"Then what's the problem?"

"They all worked for _her_. They followed her orders and made the Empire what she told them to make it."

"Ah," you say. "So you think you can't trust them. The good news is that they all love saving their own skins, which is why they followed her orders. They will follow yours just as closely."

"I don't want people who only want to save their own skins. I want people who will tell me when I'm doing things wrong." She tilts her chin up, a challenge. Permission. Permission to let the coldness spill out of you and paint a frost picture of exactly who she is, as if she doesn't know every time she looks in the mirror.

You step back, ears flattening against your head. She thinks you're still the Psiioniic. A pan-damaged traumatized shell version of the Psiioniic maybe, but she... she has no fucking idea. You could tell her, but where would you even begin? Psii was hatched from idealism and trust and love and hope, hope, hope. You killed everything he was thousands of sweeps ago. He's as dead as the Signless, but no one ever let his body stop breathing, so here you are.

You are the First Imperial Helmsman. You brought this galaxy to its knees at the behest of the last Empress, and you are too tired to help it stand again. You are too tired to watch this girl crumble under the pressures of power. You are too tired to invest yourself in the Second Signless and the Empire and hope. This universe is built on misery. The gods made sure of that, and there's nothing anyone can do about it.

She hasn't been alive long enough yet to realize that hope is useless. She will be eventually. Immortality puts everything in perspective. 

You're so tired.

"I can't help you," you say.

"Psii" -

"Don't call me that."

She frowns, holds her hands out. "You don't have to make a full time job of it. I know you're recovering."

"Yes. I'm insane. I can't help you." You turn on your heel without being dismissed, because you're pushing boundaries, because you want to see where the differences between them lie. "Good luck with your inheritance. Leave me alone."

She doesn't follow.

\---

You're going to give her grudging credit for letting you go, but then she sends the Second Signless after you.

Either truly none of them realize how cruel they're being, or they're even better at pretending cruelty is kindness than the last Empress was. You are an open wound where he's concerned. Di's descendant too, and Rosa's, but neither of them is onboard the ship and if you're lucky you'll never have to meet them.

You're staring at the ceiling of the medbay and categorizing your nonexistent networks when he enters. He wears the symbol of the irons in bright scarlet and no cloak, but for all intents and purposes he's your moirail brought back from the dead. Every time he enters a room you experience a few shaky seconds where you forget you ever lost him.

"Look," he says, sitting next to your resting platform. "I know they look alike, and I know you probably don't want anything to do with her, but Feferi isn't the Condesce."

"You are uncomfortable around me," you say, because it's true and because you're really not in the mood for this conversation. You don't blame him. He may be Sign in appearance, voice, and personality, but he doesn't have any of Sign's memories, and you keep forgetting. "Say what she told you to say and then you can go."

"She didn't tell me to say anything. She told me what happened and now I have shit to say myself."

Irritation flares through your chest, but gods know how many planets you destroyed just to listen to the soft cadence of his voice and enjoy the comfort of phantom warmth against your skin. Gods know how many spy networks you gutted and traitors you exposed for reward programming that would let you pretend he was alive. He needs to leave - he doesn't know. He doesn't understand the full extent of the power he has over you, because he may know his history but he doesn't know you at all, Psiioniic or Helmsman. Every breath you take in his presence has serrated edges. He doesn't _know._

"Say what you mean to say and you can go, then," you say.

He takes a deep breath and speaks like he's rehearsed. "If the Condesce was still in power, I'd be dead a thousand times over. I've spent my entire fucking life living in terror. Even now, every time I go out in this color I get panicky when people look at me because I feel like I'll have to fight for my life. Keeping my blood a secret, knowing I was constantly in danger, knowing my continued existence hinged on Feferi winning her challenge..."

"Of course she commands your loyalty, then," you say, closing your eyes. "She was your only hope."

"No, you festering douchewaffle, that's not the point I'm making. The point I'm making is that I'm not fucking dead because she isn't the Condesce and she doesn't want to be the Condesce. And it's not just my life. Fuck knows how many millions of trolls she's going to end up saving, which isn't even getting started on the institutionalized hoofbeastshit she's planning to unravel."

"That's nice." You roll onto your side, facing away from him. "I don't want any part of it."

"What? Why? You idiot, this is literally what you were fighting for, or do you not remember?"

"There is not enough of me left to care."

Not enough left of you to afford to care. You are an open wound where he's concerned and broken glass everywhere else. Every time you try to clean up the mess you cut yourself deeper, shatter smaller, so at this point you're content to let it rest. You've been Sisyphus for too long. There comes a point where you stop pushing the boulder up the hill and instead you lay down and don't get up.

"If my ancestor had hatched when I did," Karkat says quietly, "he would have lived. You really should care."

And then there comes a point where a naive newcomer tries to convince you that maybe if you try very very hard, you'll get the boulder up the hill this time.

_Kill him._

The thought comes out of nowhere, so insistent it's close to a hiss. You'd like to say you're startled, but you know yourself better than that. You thought it would be a little longer before you started reliving her memory like you do your family's, but you guess you miss her more than you anticipated.

 _Kill him and he loses his power over you. Kill him and you don't need to be afraid. Kill him and make sure his death is quicker than the first time. It's merciful. Dead men can't threaten you._ The ghost of her breath tickles your ear.

You have not been the Psiioniic for a long, long time.

You roll back over, open your eyes. Sign meets your gaze, a frown creasing his brow as he waits for you to say something. Dear gods above, you want this to be over so badly.

No, not Sign - Karkat, god dammit, Karkat.

_Kill him. Otherwise he'll slip under your skin and twist you up worse, and don't you want the pain to stop? Kill him and they'll probably throw you out an airlock. You could end this all right now._

You reach up and carefully touch his cheek. "You look so much like him," you say.

"I know." He covers your fingers with his, and you have missed him so much, and you have missed this warmth so much, and he's going to ruin you, and he doesn't know. "I'm sorry."

_Kill him._

You've already been ruined so many times, built anew and shredded again and again, and no one ever lets you heal before they start the new project. You are shattered glass, a crumbling infrastructure. The Psiioniic should have died with the Signless. This body should have crumbled. It would have been satisfying, poetic even. You were cheated out of a dignified death and cheated out of peace and you killed the person you were so he would not have to become this _thing_ , and what's left in the aftermath is not strong enough to shape an identity out of the rubble. You are the First Imperial Helmsman, but without the ship to swallow you, you aren't even that. You are pain and fear and exhaustion. There's nothing else left.

_Kill him and nothing holds you here. Kill him and you can stop fighting. Kill him and nothing matters. That's what you need, isn't it?_

"Is this all you needed to tell me?" you whisper.

"Just... just think about it, okay? No one will make you do anything you don't want to do, but I think you know a hell of a lot more than you're letting on. A hell of a lot more than the rest of us do. Fuck knows what kind of shit you've seen, but you know how the last Empress fucked up. Probably better than anyone. I don't know what I'm doing, and Feferi doesn't know what she's doing, but we're _trying_ and if we want to get this right then we need someone to tell us when we're fucking up too."

"She fucked up by taking me out of the helm."

Karkat pauses, releases your hand, and for a second you think he's run out of patience. But then he cups your cheek and rubs his thumb over your skin. You trill before you can stop yourself.

"If she fucked up then she needs to _know,_ " he says. "That's how she keeps from becoming the Condesce."

_Kill him._

No.

You know the ways the last Empress fucked up. You are the First Imperial Helmsman, destroyer of worlds, and you knew her more intimately than anyone else could ever hope to. He needs to know that, at least. It's important.

"I loved her," you say. "The Empress, I mean. My Empress."

"That's... pretty fucked up, but not really surprising." Karkat keeps his hand where it is, and you nuzzle against him. "You'd been with her forever. I'm. I'm sorry you lost her."

"I'm not." You take the first deep breath you have in ages, and the sharp edges in your chest don't scrape. This truth, at least, you're sure of. "I would rather you be alive than her."

Karkat is silent for a few seconds. "You understand I'm not him, right?"

"You're making it easy to forget," you say. "But I know, I think. Mostly. Still would rather you be alive than her. I will... I will think about helping the Empress. I need time."

"Of course. Thank you for considering it."

You're a little worried that the longer he stays, the greater your chances of rethinking this. You really, really, really don't want to get hurt again, and he is not Sign and he is not your moirail and he doesn't know he can ruin you. But his hands are so warm, and the Empress - maybe if you yell at her a little early in her reign, she'll learn what the fuck consent means, unlike certain other trolls. Maybe she means what she says. Maybe she's going to try.

You don't want to rethink this. You don't want to kill him.

"I'd like to be left alone now," you say. "I'm tired. And, Karkat?"

"Hmm?"

"Promise never to trust me."


End file.
